


Gauntlet

by milliejack



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cutting, Depressed Dean, Depression, Gen, Hurt Dean, Mental Health Issues, POV Dean Winchester, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-25 22:09:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 14,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3826801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milliejack/pseuds/milliejack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean uses cutting to fill the hole in his chest or empty the pressure when it builds too much. Sam finds out but Dean can't communicate his feelings to him. This seems like a battle that Dean can't win.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Out of My Hands

**Author's Note:**

> I take no credit for any characters, this all belongs to CW's Supernatural. Self-harm is based on personal experiences, so I tried to be more realistic as I find a lot of the self-harm fics to be kinda fake and unrealistic.

Dean turned up the volume on his walkman as his dad and brother turned up the volume on their argument. If they didn’t quiet down, the motel manager would kick them out. It wouldn’t be the first time that the Winchesters had been kicked out of a motel with no refund because of Sam’s insistence to fight with John and John’s insistence to fight back.  
But tonight was different from the other fights. Usually they fought over moving schools. If Sam was doing well and didn’t want to move, then he fought with Dad about it for a few hours before taking his spot in the back seat of the Impala. Sometimes they fought about Sam’s job as Encyclopedia Brown. Sam just didn’t understand that school work didn’t matter when they were going to leave in a few weeks and finding out how to kill whatever evil thing was killing people took first priority. Every once in a while, when Sam got interested in a case, he would fight with John about his plan or what it was they were hunting. If he wasn’t interested, then he fought if he was tagged with Dean on back-up duty. Whatever the scenario, Sam found a reason to fight with Dad.  
But today was different because Sam wasn’t backing down and taking his place in the family as the son. He was serious this time. Not that he hadn’t been serious before. But before, he had fought for the sake of fighting and today the fight came along with the end result that Sam was seeing through.  
“I am not going to let you ruin my life like this! You have never been a father for his sons, just a sergeant training his soldiers.”  
“I thought that you understood the stakes of this job, Sam. We have to save people because if we don’t, then no one else will. People will die because you want to go to school. How can you be that selfish, Sam? I thought I raised you better!”  
“Like father, like son. When have you ever taught be to not be selfish? All you do is show me to be selfish. How can you justify the way you have raised Dean and I-”  
“I raised you and your brother to be able to protect yourself from the evil out there-”  
“And I learned how to protect myself from the evil in front of face. I’m leaving, whether you want me to or not.”  
“I am your father, Sam, and you will do exactly-”  
“No, I won’t. You can’t make me do whatever you want under the pretenses of you being my father when you have barely been a dad to me my whole life.”   
“I did the best I could-”  
“The best? You didn’t even try. I have had to look out for myself my whole life, and that is exactly what I am doing now.”  
Dean felt frozen to the wall he was sitting against. He didn’t know what to do. How could he convince Sam to stay?   
Sam shouldered a packed duffle and headed for the door.   
“You walk out that door, son, you don’t ever come back. Don’t even think about it. You are abandoning this family, and this family can’t afford you to come back.”  
“The thought won’t cross my mind, I promise,” Sam replied bitterly.  
“Wait,” Dean called out, pulling his headphones down to his neck and standing up. Sam glanced at his brother.  
“Dean, you can’t make me stay here. You know this isn’t right. We shouldn’t live like this.” Sam turned the door knob.  
“Sammy, please,” Dean tried again, hating how weak his voice sounded. “Sammy, stay. We need you. We’re family. You can’t walk out on your older brother like this, can you?”  
“Dean, nothing about this is family. We all might be blood, but nothing about our lives has been family. I hope you can see that for yourself some day,” Sam said, opening the door. “I have to do this for myself,” he added, slamming the door shut.   
Dean’s head fell into his hands.  
“God-damn, ungrateful brat!” John shouted, slamming his hands against the walls.   
“Dad, I-I’m sorry,” Dean said, still shocked that Sam was gone. He couldn’t be. Dad had left all the time as a kid, but he always came back.   
“Did you know about this?” John shouted, swinging around to face Dean.  
“No! Of course not!” Dean cried.   
John shook his head, turning away. “We’ve still got this pagan running around this town, so get the knives sharpened for tomorrow,” he ordered.   
“Yes sir,” Dean said, relieved that Dad hadn’t drilled him any further.   
Dean found the four knives they needed to kill the pagan monster and the sharpening stone and set up camp at the desk. He pushed the edge of the blade across the stone, just like he had been taught at age six. The empty silence of the room was unsettling with only the gritting sound of the sharpening stone and the occasional page turning as his father researched the lore.  
All Dean could think about was Sam. What had Dean done to drive him away? Sam always loved school, but this still came like a right hook to the nose.  
Suddenly, a sharp pain in his wrist called Dean out of this thoughts. He sucked in a breath against the pain pulled his hand back. He’d slipped and nicked the side of wrist. It was bleeding, but not too bad.   
“Dean, you okay?”  
“Yeah, I just slipped. No big deal.”  
“Better not be. I need you to kick this goddess’s ass out of the country. I’ve narrowed it down to five or so,” John reported, already slipping back into the swing of things without Sam.  
“Great,” Dean said, slipping into the bathroom.  
He grabbed a tissue and blotted away the blood so he could see the cut. It wasn’t bad; only an inch long, and hardly deep enough to require anything special. Dean grabbed the rubbing alcohol from the first aid kit and gasped as it stung. He slapped a band aid over it and headed back to the desk.  
“Well?”  
“What?”  
“Are they sharp enough?” John asked, a smile threatening to break his facade.  
“Nope, not even close,” Dean replied, smiling slightly at the joke Dad had made. The smiles faded and the two returned to their tasks and the room was reduced to the sound of paper rustling and knife sharpening.  
Later that night, as Dean tossed and turned in the queen bed that felt suddenly too big without his little brother to share it with, the corner of the nightstand hit the cut on Dean’s wrist. Dean recoiled and turned away. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt calmer. He drove his thumb into the cut, letting the pain well up in his brain, pushing the stress and pain of Sam’s absence out. He exhaled and felt the stress leave with the breath. His head no longer felt foggy, his back no longer tense like he was suppose to be doing something, his thoughts no longer consumed with replaying the last few months to figure out what he had done to push Sam out that door.


	2. Cold Grey Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean uses cutting to fill the hole in his chest or empty the pressure when it builds too much. Sam finds out but Dean can't communicate his feelings to him. This seems like a battle that Dean can't win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I take no credit for any characters, this all belongs to CW's Supernatural. Self-harm is based on personal experiences, so I tried to be more realistic as I find a lot of the self-harm fics to be kinda fake and unrealistic.

“Wake up, Dean, we have to get going,” John said gruffly.  
Dean rolled over to see Dad fully dressed in his Fed Threads.  
“Need me to get breakfast?” Dean mumbled, rubbing sleep out of his eyes as he sat up and rustled through his bag for a clean change of clothes.   
“We’ll grab some on the way. There was another attack this morning. Another girl is dead,” John said.  
Dean raised his eyebrows. “Wow, this bitch really goes through vics like it’s a parade. Any idea who it is?”  
“I’ve got Bobby doing more research, but I’m pretty sure that it’s Aphrodite.”  
“The whore goddess?” Dean asked, closing the bathroom door to change.  
“That’s the one.”  
“Makes sense,” Dean said through the door. “All the vics were cheerleaders and queen B’s, right?”  
“Including the one from this morning. Dance team captain,” John said. “The only thing I can’t figure out is why it’s the good-looking girls that are getting killed when Aphrodite was suppose to give beauty back in the golden age.”  
“Maybe it’s like a cross-roads trade? They all asked for beauty a few years ago and now Jillian Michaels is collecting her tribute?” Dean suggested, opening the door while he folded up the sleeves of his flannel shirt over his Metallica t-shirt.   
“I haven’t thrown that idea out the window yet, so you’re going to swing by the campus and figure out when these girls got hot. I’m going to the morgue to see how they died since these coroner’s reports are annoyingly vague.”  
Dean was silent. He knew that translated as “because I couldn’t hack into the coroner’s reports without Sam.” He grabbed his bag and headed out the door. John followed and they walked to the Impala in silence.  
In the car, Sam’s absence dug an even deeper hole in Dean’s morale everytime he looked in the rearview mirror and had a clear shot to the road without Sam’s head blocking the way.  
He pressed his thumb into his wrist, but didn’t feel anything. No sting, no pain. He frowned and knit his eyebrows together against the flood of emotions that came. Why had Sam abandoned him? What had he done wrong?

They finished the hunt that night and John was ready to hit the bar, which was understandable since this was one of the more messed up hunts they’d had. It always gets messier when civilians are involved, and in this case, it was the unpopular girls being promised the beauty of whoever they killed for Aphrodite.   
Dean asked to be dropped off at the motel instead. That should have been flashing sirens that something was wrong with Dean, but John’s mind was elsewhere.  
Dean waited until he heard the beautifully noisy sound of the Impala’s engine driving away before hurrying to the bathroom. He slid his bracelets up his forearm and looked at his olive skin.   
Would he really do this?   
Dean felt detached as he pulled a knife from his pocket and brought it to his wrist.   
This wasn’t him. He didn’t breakdown when the stress got to be too much because the stress never got to be too much. Sure the job was plenty stressful, but Dean had the capacity to handle it. He always has.  
His hand acted of its own accord as it touched the blade to the skin of the wrist that wasn’t his.  
He couldn’t let Dad see his weakness. He had to handle the pain however he could so he could be strong and keep fighting. He wouldn’t break like Sam did. He couldn’t leave.  
Dean slid the blade across his skin, making a dent that didn’t bleed. He ran the blade over the same spot and no blood came.  
Frustration overwhelmed him and he pulled again, faster and harder. Red welled up from the cut and Dean’s heart beat quickly, pumping blood through his veins so fast that it scrubbed the pain and worry from his brain and flushed it out through his breath.   
And he didn’t have to worry about Sam. He didn’t have to worry about Dad. He didn’t even have to worry about the job.


	3. Rusty Cage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All characters belong to CW's Supernatural. Self harm is based on personal experiences.

Dean’s leg bounced uncontrollably, anxiety course through his veins. He glanced at Sam, asleep in the passenger seat. Dean considered pulling over into the shoulder so he could get out and do it. But Sam might wake up and find him and wonder what he was doing. Dean shook his head and bounced his leg faster as they passed another mile marker. Twenty more to go before they got to the town they were crashing at, and then he still had to find a motel at rates they could afford, wake Sammy up, unpack their stuff and he’d have to wait for Sam to go back to sleep.   
Dean eyed the truck stop. He could say he was in the bathroom. But if Sam woke up and wondered where he’d gone for so long, then he’d have to lie on the spot and Sammy can always see through Dean’s lies.   
Dean sighed and slammed his back against the seat in frustration. He didn’t know how much longer he could wait. He looked over at Sam again and turned on the radio to make sure Sam was asleep. He didn’t stir, so Dean figured he was safe.   
He pulled back sleeve of his leather jacket and slid the bracelets up his forearm. Thin, pink lines criss-crossed his wrist. Dean sighed. It was damn irritating how quickly they healed. He scratched the itch, hoping for a scab he could pull off. Dean relaxed his back into the chair. He took deep, steady breaths as he felt the scarred skin beneath his fingers.  
They passed a highway sign advertising motels off the next exit. Dean pulled his jacket down over his arm and switched to the right lane. He could explain to Sam that he had gotten too tired to make it the whole drive. And anyways, it’s best to keep your distance from witches, so they could make the commute to Manchester and avoid the chance of getting hex bagged themselves. 

Dean waited for Sam to finish his shower while the anxiety built up to be higher than he could bear. Dean had assumed that Sam would crash on his bed as soon as he got to the motel room, but instead Sam has hit the showers while his geek machine ran the hacking software to get into the county police files.   
Dean sat on his bed, cross legged as he dismantled his pistol in an almost compulsive way, not thinking as he pulled each piece apart and laid it out on the quilt. He finished and cleaned the pistol. As he snapped the pieces back in place, slammed the mag up and felt the satisfying click of a well-cleaned slide as he slid a .44 in the chamber.   
He took a deep breath to calm his shaking hands. Dean looked at the pistol, feeling strangely distant and disconnected with the hand that held it. He forced himself to tear his eyes away and look over at Sammy’s geek machine and duffle bag.  
But wouldn’t Sammy be better off without him?  
He’s been telling himself to hold out for Sam, he had to stay here to protect little brother everything evil in the world. But maybe he could have eased Sam’s burden instead of weighing him down.  
Sam didn’t need him. Dean just got in the way of hunts. He was reckless and didn’t think before he rushed into things, which always got him hurt and Sammy with no back up and an extra person to worry about. Take Dean out of the picture and Sam would be the smart and efficient hunter he could be on his own.  
Dean choked on guilt as memories rushed back of all the times he’d hurt Sammy. He forced himself to swallow and breathe. Dean set the gun in the pocket of his jacket and ran a hand over his hair and face.  
Just through the end of this week. All he has to worry about is this week. See through the end of the week, then start worrying about the next week.  
Sam opened the bathroom door. Dean sprung to his feet.  
“About God-damn time,” he said. “One of these I’m going to cut your hair, princess, and you can shower like a man.”  
“Jeez, Dean, calm down. It’s late; you can just shower in the morning.”  
“No, we have to hit the town in the morning and we’re still at least twenty minutes away,” Dean said, shutting the door on the conversation.  
Dean let out a sigh and turned on the water of the shower. He undressed and pressed his back against the wall opposite mirror.   
He stared, emotionlessly at his reflection. He hated every inch of himself, but he could never pinpoint why. He tore his eyes away from the mirror and slid down the wall. He opened the switchblade and brought it to his skin. He hovered over his arm, shaking a little. Was he really going to do this? It didn’t make sense how he could do this, but he just did. This didn’t seem right or real. It was just on his of fundamentals. Breathe, eat, drive, eat, shoot, eat, cut, sleep, repeat.  
Dean ignored the thoughts and pulled the blade over his skin. Nothing at first, and Dean’s heart thumped in his chest. Then the line filled with dark red and he exhaled. His shaking hands stopped, his pounding heart slowed, and his confused thoughts calmed. This is where he was, and he wasn’t bleeding enough. He pulled the blade across his wrist again and again, faster and harder each time, wanting to go deeper and deeper. He moved on to the next scar to reopen and frowned when it bled right away. That was just blood from the knife. He wondered how much he had actually bled and how much he had just spread the blood around. He took a tissue and blotted his skin clean, waiting for the blood to spring up again. It didn’t. Dean was frustrated and sliced deeper, wiping the knife clean each time to assure that he pulling to blood out of him. As he worked on a rough scar from years ago on the side of wrist, trying to reopen the toughened skin, he could feel the warm blood flow out of the cuts on the bottom of his wrist. The blood gathered and slipped down his arm.   
No matter what he did, that moment was always when he felt the most alive. No matter how good of a burger he ate, how drunk he got, how hot the girl was he was banging, how fast he was running from a vamp or how slick the machete sliced through its neck, feeling the blood actually flow out of his body made him calm down and feel alive. Everything else he did started to feel routine and unreal. Detached. Just part of the job. Sometimes he wasn’t even convinced that the blood that came from his arm was real because he didn’t feel like he was bleeding. At least not until it was running down his arm and into his palms.  
He heard Sam cough from the other side of the door and he realized that he didn’t know how long he had been in there. He quickly cleaned his blade and jumped in the shower. The hot water stung painfully and the soap burned. Dean rushed through the shower to make up for lost time and quickly changed into his clean clothes, pulling the long sleeves of his shirt over his palms.  
“I think my shower counts as a man shower if yours did,” Sam teased.  
“Shut up, homecoming queen,” Dean replied, beelining straight for his bed. He pulled the covers up to his ears and buried his face into his pillow.   
Dean squeezed his green eyes as tight as he could, willing for the tears to come. He felt the pain and worry start to built up again and he wanted to wash it out, but he never could. So instead he let the red tears drip from his skin since the clear ones wouldn’t come from his eyes.  
Dean was still awake when Sam finally shut off the light an hour later. And he was still awake when Sam’s snores sounded an hour after.


	4. Hurt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All characters are owned by CW's Supernatural.

Dean woke for the fifth time that night. He checked the time and decided that this was a reasonable time to get up. He didn’t want to try falling asleep again. He rolled out of bed and quickly changed before Sam woke up. He pulled his leather jacket on and double checked his bracelets before shaking Sam awake.  
“Come on, Sammy, we’ll get breakfast on the way,” he said.  
Sam rolled over, groaning. He gave the clock a glance and sighed. “Dean, it’s been three hours.”  
“It’s seven-thirty. Don’t stay up so late, Cinderella,” Dean said. “What have you dug up so far?”  
Sam didn’t respond, his eyes shut and his breathing already normalized. Dean rolled his eyes and decided to go out and get breakfast to let Sam sleep a little longer. He took the Impala around the small town they had ended up in, wandering around until he found a place that was open and had a few cars in the lot.   
He opened the door just as the dad of a family of five was reaching for the handle. Dean plastered a smile on his face and gestured for them to go ahead of him.   
“Thanks, but you were here first,” the man said.   
Dean shook his head. “No, no, I insist.”  
“You’ll be faster with just you and the little ones need booster seats,” the man said, not budging.   
Dean sighed and stepped through the door.  
“Just you today, sir?” the hostess asked Dean.  
“Yeah, I’m actually ordering to go,” he answered, hating the attention he was getting and feeling the eyes of the family behind him burning holes in the back of his head. Had he imagined it, or had they groaned? They probably did.   
The hostess handed him a menu and he picked the first thing he saw, not wanting to take anymore time.  
She nodded and smiled before turning to leave and sit the family that had come in behind him.   
Dean sighed and ran a hand through his hair, replaying the conversation in his head, trying to figure out if she was irritated with him. How fake was her smile? Probably pretty fake. What about the man? There’s no way he really wanted to go last. Dean should have pushed harder for them to go first.   
As the weight in Dean’s chest grew and expanded, pressing against his ribs, his left hand went instinctively to his right wrist. He pressed on the raw skin, but it barely stung. He frowned and his leg immediately started bouncing to counter the building anxiety.  
A waitress brought Dean his food and he ducked out of the diner before he could bother anyone else. When he got back to the motel, Sam was still asleep.   
“Come on, Sammy, I got breakfast this time,” Dean said, tearing the blanket off and waving the bag of food in front of his face.  
“What did you get?” Sam moaned.  
“Pancakes, hashbrowns, coffee,” Dean said, looking in the back for the first time since he didn’t even know himself.  
“Any yogurt?”  
“Yogurt?” Dean asked.  
“Yeah, yogurt.”  
“Why would I get yogurt for breakfast? I’m not a college girl on a diet, Samuela,” Dean replied. Sam rolled his eyes and got out of bed, snagging a pancake on his way to the bathroom.  
Dean sat on his bed and absentmindedly chugged his coffee. Sam’s word were nagging the part of him that was really John reminding him to keep Sam safe. Dean wasn’t doing a very good job of it. Sam probably needed more sleep and healthier food. Dean liked to tease Sam for eating healthy, but maybe he should be helping Sam stay healthy. Dad had been an advocate Lucky Charms for breakfast and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch and dinner, so Dean had always been used to cheap food.   
Dean sighed and instantly went to his wrist for relief, despite knowing that there wasn’t much there. He eyed the knife on his nightstand, but he knew that Sam would be out any moment now. He took a deep breath and tried to look away from the knife. His chest shuddered and his head fogged up. The anxiety was dammed up in his brain and chest and wouldn’t leave. Quickly, Dean grabbed the knife and nicked his wrist over the sensitive skin he had opened last night. With the sharp pain that shot up his arm, he felt the pressure in his chest dissipate and the block in his head loosen. He quickly flicked the blade over another barely healed cut and felt relief when the skin broke open immediately. He exhaled all the stress and failure he had felt, letting the emotions that he couldn’t handle leave his mind and tense muscles. He felt the gaping emptiness in his chest and treasured that feeling, knowing that it was going to fill back up past breaking point by lunch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think! Any and all comments are welcome
> 
> ALWAYS KEEP FIGHTING


	5. Whiter Shade of Pale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All characters belong to CW's Supernatural

“Damn witches!” Dean cursed through clenched teeth. The hunt had gone south and they only barely stopped the coven from taking their last victim and finish their spell. Dean had gotten a few nasty cuts on his arms that stung terribly. He wondered if witches ever washed their hands, because no human’s fingernails should stung like this. His side and back were killing him, but he figured they would be fine by tomorrow morning.  
Sam, on the other hand, had a deep gash on the back of head and thought that his ankle might be twisted.  
“At least we got them,” Sam said, taking shallow breaths while Dean stitched him up.   
Dean shook his head. “I still hate them. One of these days we’ll find some fresh hunter who doesn’t know what he’s doing and give him every witch job we find.”  
Even though he couldn’t see Sam’s face, Dean knew that he was rolling his eyes. “Sure, that’ll be the day when you turn down a hunt.”  
Dean didn’t respond. After a moment of silence, he changed the topic. “This would be a lot easier if I shaved your head. You sure you won’t let me go for it? I bet you’d look great in a military cut. The ladies love a uniform.”  
“Shut up and stitch me together so I can work on you.”  
“I can clean myself up,” Dean said, his chest tightening. Sam couldn’t get anywhere near his arm. “You need to sleep. You might have a concussion.”  
“Come on, D-”  
“You know what I was thinking during that hunt?” Dean interrupted, keeping Sam off the topic.   
“Uh, if that girl would sleep with you for saving her?”  
“Get your head out of the gutter, Sammy. I’m the one with a needle to your skull. I was thinking how almost every evil thing we hunt has the Force. Not really fair is it? I mean, demons, ghosts, witches, pagans, you name it. They can just throw us to the moon like a Yoda tossing Duku across the galaxy.”  
“That never happened,” Sam said.  
“Shut up. He could have if he wanted to,” Dean replied. He tied off the stitches and cut the thread.   
“Okay. What are you getting at exactly?”  
“We should learn the Force,” Dean replied, slathering ointment on the stitches to help them heal.   
“And you’re sure that I have the concussion?” Sam teased.   
“It would come in handy. Just think, next time we have a vamp, we just use the force to separate their head from their body,” Dean said, smiling. “Alright, Sammy, you’re all fixed up. Let’s get you to that bed.”   
Dean came to Sam’s side and helped him up.   
“Dean, I can stand. Let me fix you up.”  
“I don’t need fixing,” Dean replied sternly.  
“Those cuts need cleaning.”  
“I can clean them myself.” Damn, Sam could be stubborn. Dean could take care of himself and didn’t need Sam to be anywhere near his wrist.   
“In my experience, you don’t clean them half as well as you should.”  
“I’ll be fine, Sammy, get to bed,” Dean pressed, trying to pull Sam with his next step.  
“How many rats do you think those witch bitches ate?” Sam said, holding back.  
Dean shuddered and grimaced for show, but his heart was thumping faster than a spooked mouse. How could he get out of this? Sam would keep pressing and become suspicious the more Dean fought back. Maybe Dean was just being paranoid. He had lasted this long without Dad or Sam finding out, so it seemed unreasonable to think that he wouldn’t be able to get under Sam’s radar again.  
He sighed and nodded. “Fine, but for the record, you’re annoying and should be sleeping the hunt off.”  
Dean helped Sam back to the table and sat across from him. He put his left arm out first, hoping that Sam would give in when he saw how minor the scratches were.   
“Geez, how did this happen?” Sam asked, pouring alcohol over Dean’s arm.   
Dean sucked in a breath and gritted his teeth against the stinging. Definitely could have been infected. “They were all clawing at me like monkeys or something to hold me back from the coven leader.”  
Sam shook his head and wiped the alcohol off. “Freakin’ witches.”  
“That’s what I’ve been telling you, man. They’re no good, garbage queens of all bitches of the bitch kingdom. Honestly, who wants to ruin someone’s business so badly that they burn four people’s hearts inside their blood-washed skulls?” Dean was rambling and he knew it as his leg bounced nervously.   
Sam only nodded and didn’t respond. He put a bit of ointment on the scratches that were more serious, but most of these could heal up by tomorrow. “Okay, let’s see your right.”  
“Nah, the right’s fine, man. Honestly,” Dean said, starting to stand up.  
“Dean, what is with you today?” Sam cried. “You’re being childish.”  
“I can do it,” he said, holding his hand out for the whiskey bottle.  
“No! Sit down,” Sam cried.  
Dean let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and sat back down, against all of his instincts telling him to run as far away as he could. He set his right arm across the table and covered his wrist firmly with his left.   
Dean’s heart pounded and his leg bounced ferociously. Sam poured the alcohol over his arm, but Dean was almost numb to the stinging because his thoughts were shouting louder.   
Sam patted the alcohol away and pushed Dean’s hand out of the way. Despite all of Dean’s muscles and tendons screaming to stay locked in place, his moved out of the way to avoid suspicion, making sure that the bracelets were covering him well. Sam reached for the ointment, but his elbow knocked the whiskey bottle over onto Dean’s hand.  
Shocked, Dean stood up. He gasped as the whiskey burned his broken skin.  
“Geez, Sam, watch it!” Dean said, walking to the bathroom.  
Sam stood up, wobbling a bit as he did so, and blocked Dean’s way.  
“Dean, stop. Those other scratches are already sanitized, so you have more that you didn’t know about if that stung,” Sam said, grabbing Dean’s wrist before he could react.   
He saw. Dean knew he saw. Dean tried to yank his wrist away, but Sam’s grip was iron.  
“Dean,” he said, his voice quivering. “How did you get these?”   
Dean felt like his head was going to explode. His thoughts were running so fast while at the same time being completely vacant, he didn’t know how it was possible. He couldn’t speak, didn’t speak, wouldn’t speak. He felt his heart stop and simultaneously beat laps around a race horse.   
Dean tried to pull his wrist back again.   
“D-d-did you do this to yourself?” Sam asked, his voice sounding like a choir of hopeless children.  
Dean didn’t reply, pulling on his hand harder, as if he could erase the last minute if he did. Sam was resistant at first, but then he let Dean go.   
“Dean,” Sam tried again. “How long has this been going on?”  
Dean wanted to tell him, explain everything. He wanted to let him know the pain he had felt when Sam had left him. He wanted to apologize for all the mistakes he had made and how he had failed Sammy. He wanted to explain the overflowing emptiness he felt and how he had figured out how to fix it. If he felt nothing, he cut in the pain. If he felt too much, he cut it out. Dean wanted to talk and let loose to someone so maybe the tightness in his chest could go away a little.   
He wanted to, but he didn’t know how. He couldn’t open his mouth, he couldn’t find the words.   
So he said nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think! All comments are welcome.
> 
> ALWAYS KEEP FIGHTING


	6. Silent Angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All characters belong to CW's Supernatural

The silence would have been deafening if it was silent, but Dean had the stereo turned up as loud as he could stand. He didn’t sing today, though.  
Sam was in passenger seat, looking out the window. He hadn’t said a word to Dean all morning and Dean hadn’t said a word back. Bobby had called about a case in Indiana they were headed to, so they had another few hours to stay in the comfort of silence before they had to start discussing the case.   
Sam may not have said anything, but he looked. He just looked at Dean differently. Like there was something to change or something to fix. Dean was used to be looked at like a work in progress, but not from his little brother. Dean wondered if Sam would ever look at him the same again. It didn’t seem likely. That was going to make his life hell on Earth if he couldn’t look at his brother without seeing those hazel eyes giving him a look like that.  
Sam shut off the music. Dean froze.   
“Dean, I did some research, and I think that we can pull through this.”  
We? Dean wanted to ask. Sam hadn’t said that we can pull through this when he ran off.   
But no, Dean hadn’t started cutting because Sam ran off. It was Sam’s fault. It was no one’s fault but his own.   
“Research?” Dean croaked, wincing at his voice. He had meant to come off as sarcastic.  
“Yes. Did you know that putting ice on your skin gives your body the same reaction as... this does? The same chemicals are released in your brain, so it would feel the same. Have you given that a try?” Sam asked.  
Dean was silent, sullen.  
Ice? Was Sam freakin’ kidding him? This is ridiculous. Why had he even wanted to talk with him the night before? Obviously he wouldn’t get it. Dean didn’t even get it most of the time. Sometimes the scars were just too close to fading and Dean was afraid they would heal completely. Dean could have that, so he fixed it.  
“If not, some people snap a rubber band on their wrist instead while they are recovering,” Sam added.  
Dean didn’t show a reaction, but he wanted to tell Sam to shut up. Why had Sam assumed that Dean needed to recover from anything?  
“Do you know why you are doing this?” Sam asked. He waited for an answer before going on. “Is it because of Dad?”  
Dean couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Of course it wasn’t because of Dad.  
“It is because of hell?” Sam suggested.  
He’d only been out of hell for a few months and this had been going on for much longer than that. Hell didn’t help, of course. But it wasn’t why. Hell just added to the overload of feelings he needed to empty and drain.   
“You know that you can come and talk to me about anything, right? You’re always my brother and that nothing you can tell me can change that. If something is bothering you and makes you want to do this, then we can talk through it so you don’t have to. I know that you hold on to every person you couldn’t save. Is this for them? You don’t need to do this for them. You did the best you could and think about all the people who did save,” Sam said.  
Dean stared at the road. He wasn’t having this conversation. Sam didn’t understand a damn thing and Dean couldn’t figure out how to make him understand. There isn’t a why, not all the time. Sometimes he just needed to feel the blood pooling in his palm so he did.   
Dean didn’t see why Sam didn’t just drop it. This wasn’t that big of a deal. Dean didn’t need to be fixed from cutting, he needed Sam to get off his back so he could keep dealing. He didn’t have a problem or need Sam’s help with anything. Dean didn’t understand why Sam was talking about stopping. He couldn’t think about stopping. He didn’t even think that he wanted to stop. It was calming and in his crazy, insane life, Dean thought that he deserved a few moments of peace with a blade in the bathroom.  
Dean felt oddly distant while he sat completely still, gaze locked on the horizon. He wasn’t sure if he felt stressed by Sam talking about this. His chest felt tight, like his ribs were going to burst open and crush his heart at the same time. His head felt foggy and absent while he drove on like a thoughtless shell of a person. Dean tried to stop thinking about it. The more he thought about what he was feeling, the more he realized he wasn’t feeling anything at all. He thought of hell and welcomed the painful guilt to replace the vacancy in his body.   
Neither was better than the other because he was itching to crack open his scarred skin and let the blood drip down his arm either way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment! I'd love anything that you have to say, compliment or criticism.
> 
> ALWAYS KEEP FIGHTING


	7. Lonely Is the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All characters belong to CW's Supernatural

“You keep digging, I’m going to take first shower,” Dean said, tossing his trash out and standing up.   
Sam stood up too and stepped in front of him.  
“What are you going to do? Watch me shower?” Dean cried, fed up with Sam’s watchful eye that hadn’t left him all day. Sam had followed him into the gas station, the bathroom and had insisted they left all the weapons in the Impala. It had taken most of the drive before they could break the silence, Sam not wanting to change the subject in case Dean wanted to open up and Dean unable to say a word.  
“Should I?” Sam asked.   
Dean glared holes through Sam’s head.   
“I’m just going to check you, okay?”  
“No,” Dean said, knowing that it wasn’t going to do any good. Sam checked Dean’s pockets twice and searched the change of clothes he was taking to the bathroom.   
Dean shut the door and started the shower going. He ran a shaking hand through his hair.  
Sam knocked at the door.  
“What, Sam!” Dean growled.  
“Let me in, I need to check something.”  
Dean considered not opening the door, but he knew that Sam was willing and able to break the door, so he unlocked it. Sam hurried in and took the razors from the sink and shower.   
“Okay, we’re good,” Sam said, stepping out.  
Dean slammed the door. How could he have slipped up like this? Dean couldn’t live like this much longer, with NSA agent Sam Winchester crawling up his spine.   
Dean slammed his hands against the sink. He looked up at the mirror and felt his being shrivel and recoil from what it saw. His lifeless, dull eyes weren’t familiar. The shape and placement of his nose, eyes and eyebrows was somehow wrong. His thick lips were disproportionate and sloppy, like they were drawn on his face by a first grader. He tore his gaze away from his reflection and down to his scarred arm. He hung his head, but couldn’t figure out if he felt frustrated, trapped, or stressed. Or nothing at all.  
Sam knocked at the door again. “Dean? Dean?”  
“Give me a damn minute to wash up,” Dean replied, quickly slipping out of his clothes and into the shower.   
When Dean opened the door, Sam was sitting right outside the door, computer on his lap. Dean glared at him, and Sam ignored the look and stood up.  
“I need the keys to the Impala.”  
“No,” Dean growled.  
“Dean, give me the keys to the Impala,” Sam demanded, hand outstretched and his face twisted with concern.  
“Why?” Dean asked, taking a step away.   
“I went through your stuff and I need to lock some things up,” Sam replied.  
Dean glance shot to his duffle, which Sam had attempted to put back the way it was before. “You went through my stuff?” Dean cried.  
“Dean, if we’re going to get you better, then you’re going to need to trust me right now.”  
Dean shook his head. “No, no, this is not how this works,” he shouted. He started towards the door.   
“Dean, where are you going?”  
“I’m going for a drive, Sam!”  
“Well, I’m coming with you,” Sam said, reaching for his coat.   
“Hell no, you’re not,” Dean replied.  
“Dean, how can I trust you to be on your own anymore?” Sam asked, his voice brimming with worry.  
“Sam, I need to clear my head,” Dean said. “Trust me when I say that if you follow me, I will drive us into a brick wall.”  
Sam’s face broke. “Dean... would you really-”  
Dean rolled his eyes and walked out the door. He rushed to the Impala before Sam could do anything stupid and started her up, welcoming the calming sound of her engines roaring.  
He pulled out of the motel parking lot and wandered around town, taking turns when he felt like he’d been going the same direction for too long. He quickly lost track of where he was, be he didn’t care. Dean absorbed himself into the Impala, feeling the vibrations of the engine against his back and in the wheel beneath his fingers.   
Dean wrestled with his thoughts, unable to trust himself. He couldn’t trust Sam either, although he didn’t know why he couldn’t. Sam didn’t understand, that’s why. He didn’t know anything.  
He tried to figure out whether there was anything in him that wanted Sam’s help. Was there anything left of him that agreed with Sam, that wanted to stop? He wasn’t sure if there was or if he could even trust it. Dean wasn’t even sure why he was fighting Sam. Most of him thought it was because he didn’t want to stop. Dean already had a hard enough time as it was when attention was directed his way. So Sam’s unwavering eye wasn’t helping anything. It was suffocating.   
Yet, despite his conflicting thoughts, Dean only felt hollow. The more he thought about it, the more he thought that he was feeling absolutely nothing. He tried to remember the last time he had laughed with Sammy. It had only been yesterday, but when Dean thought about it, all he could remember was the empty feeling before the smile and after the smile. The smile had been for show.   
Dean pulled over. He had ended up in the outskirts of town and pulled over in a field. He turned off the Impala and went straight for the trunk. He tooked four of the knives he thought were sharpest and walked to the side of the Impala that was farthest from the road. He sat down, his back against his baby and pulled his sleeve back. 

Dean opened the door and Sam jumped to his feet, setting his laptop aside.   
“Dean!” Sam said, rushing to his brother. Dean turned away from him and went straight for his bed.   
“Dean, you were gone for so long. Almost two hours. Dean, you need to talk to me,” Sam said, putting a hand on his brother’s shoulder. Dean shrugged it off and fell on his stomach. He propped the pillow up under his face and slid his hands under it. His wrist stung with the pressure of his head.   
Sam knelt at Dean’s side. “Dean, please. Why do you do this to yourself? Help me understand.”  
Dean didn’t say anything. You won’t understand. You can’t understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me what you think!
> 
> ALWAYS KEEP FIGHTING


	8. The Weight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All characters belong to CW's Supernatural

Dean was glad to finally get his own space. Sam hadn’t fallen for the ‘I’m going to get fresh air’ ploy again, so Dean had been one step short of hand cuffed to his brother for the past couple days. Sam had taken all of the knives and blades they had and locked them in a box that he kept out of Dean’s reach at all times. Dean thought it was idiotic. Sam would regret it when they got jumped by a demon unarmed. Despite Dean’s purest, logical arguments, Sam was unwavering and stubborn in his insistence to keep the blades locked up and Dean within arms length distance.   
Today, though, Sam needed to do some heavy-duty research on the town because this ghost was dropping bodies like a DJ drops the beat. And the one thing they were short of? Salt and a shovels. They’d broken their last shovel on a hunt trying to break into a high-security coffin. And they were never short on salt, but they always got more when they went out. Insurance to make sure they never fall short of their supply.   
Dean wandered the aisles of the hardware store and finally found the shovels. He knew from experience which type made the backbreaking job less painful and quickly made his decision. On his way to the cashier, he stopped by the knives, purely out of habit. He and Dad had always stopped by the knives, if only to look since most monsters required a silver or iron blade.   
There were a couple nice pocket knives that he liked the looks of, but then his eye caught the razor blade. It was made as a replacement blade in a interchangeable knife, but Dean was sizing up its stats. It looked plenty sharp and he could easily figure out how to hide it from Sam.   
Dean took a step back and leaned on the shovel, taking a deep breath. He was supposed to be getting better, according to Sam. And Sam hadn’t even asked him if he wanted to get better. Hell, Dean felt just fine and didn’t anything that he needed to get better from.   
He felt guilty going out of his way to go behind Sam’s back like this, but Sam had left him no choice. These last few days have been awful for Dean. He hasn’t slept more than two hours a night since Sam had taken confiscated everything from him. Dean felt like a weight was crushing his chest, and he couldn’t think clearly about anything. He was completely useless on this hunt without his head screwed on right. He was wound up and kept getting tighter with no sign of release.  
Dean picked up the blade and headed for the cashier. After he paid for everything, his phone buzzed with a text from Sam:

Done yet? I found our guy.

Dean hesitated before replying: 

Still looking around. Meet you at the motel in twenty

Dean snapped his phone shut and went to the bathroom of the store. He quickly tore the packaging of the blade and picked it up. His hands were shaking a little, but he barely noticed. He didn’t know whether he should do it now or later, after the hunt. He decided that he needed to have his head clear for the hunt and he couldn’t focus with this tightness.  
He pulled back his sleeve and slowly dragged the blade across his skin over a previous scar. Nothing happened, so he did it again. A small drop of blood plumed. He swiped the blade again, quicker. A thin line of blood appeared. Dean cut into that line, counting out ten cuts before moving on to the next part of his wrist.  
When he was done, the toilet bowl was red and he felt calm. As Dean cleaned up, he found himself wondering why he did this for the first time. Was it just a means to an end? He wasn’t sure. Yesterday, when he saw his cuts nearly all healed, that alone had set Dean off all night trying to figure out how to get around Sam.   
He went to the Impala, hoping that he’d be on time for Sam.

Sam was changing out of his Fed Threads when Dean came in.   
“That better be one damn good shovel,” Sam teased.  
“Oh, this is the shovel of all shovels,” Dean said, tossing it on Sam’s bed.  
“Took you a while,” Sam said, trying to be off-handed. He suspected something.  
“Yeah, they were out of stock of our favorite model so I made the guy get one from the back and he was idiot,” Dean lied.  
“Huh. Doesn’t sound like you,” Sam said, tieing his boots. “Usually you would take the route of least resistance.”  
“I would for other things, but when it comes to the back breaking work of digging a six foot deep hole, I get the specifics right,” Dean said. He decided to change the subject. “So who’s our Caspar?”  
“Martin G. Ferris,” Sam said. “Executed in the forties for murder and just decided to keep doing what he did best.”  
“Yeah, but why is he only showing up now?”  
“He showed up before too. I did some digging and similar deaths were passed off as accidents ever since his death, but only about one per year.”  
“And he just decided to go on a five-a-day frenzy now?” Dean asked. “Why? Seems kinda random.”  
“According to my research, this is his hundredth birthday this month.”  
Dean raised his eyebrows. “Great, psycho serial killer birthday party.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me what you think! I'm in desperate need of feedback
> 
> ALWAYS KEEP FIGHTING


	9. The Way It Is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All characters belong to CW's Supernatural

“Martin sent me a case in Tennessee while we were hitting town,” Dean said, bending over his phone once he had pulled to a stop next to a gas pump. They had hit town as fast as they could because someone had spotted them at the cemetery.   
“How did he text you? Isn’t he in a mental hospital?” Sam asked.  
“Guess he stole some orderly’s phone,” Dean replied. “You fill the Impala up. I’m only putting thirty bucks on her, so don’t go over. I’ll run in to pay and get us some grub. Any preference or will just food do it for you?”  
“Let’s just go in together,” Sam said.  
“Why?” Dean asked, confused.   
“So I can pick out my own food and you can find the pie you want,” Sam said casually.   
“Dude, if you want girl food, I’ll you to most non-fat low sugar banana I can find,” Dean said, starting to walk away. “Besides, I’m not leaving my baby unguarded.”  
“Then you pump and I’ll go,” Sam said, heading for the door before Dean could protest.  
Then he remembered that Sam was still rocking the whole probation officer gig. Dean sighed and wondered if he would ever get loose from Sam’s unnecessary care.   
Sam forgot the pie, per usual, but at least he got a good sub. Sam had a granola bar, veggie chips and an apple. Typical.  
“Dean,” Sam started, the tone in his voice already telling Dean that this was a conversation that he needed to abort. ASAP.  
Dean didn’t respond, taking another bite big enough to shut him up for the next while.   
Sam continued. “Can we talk about this now? I need you to understand that while what I’m doing may seem unreasonable, I’m doing what the research says.”  
Research. Right.  
“You need to find another way to cope with your feelings. A safer way,” Sam said. “I know you don’t like talking to me about hell, but I think this is proof that you need to. I’m not going to say that I understand you, because I know that I can’t ever, but at least trust me to listen to you and not judge you.”  
Oh, of course. Because Sam wasn’t already judging him every second of the day, double guessing his actions and not trusting anything he said.  
“You’re my brother Dean and you would do anything for me, so why won’t you let me do anything for you?” Sam asked. “If you found out that I was doing this, wouldn’t you do the same thing as me?”  
That hit Dean like an unexpected poltergeist dropping a brick on his head. He couldn’t bear the thought of Sammy hurting himself. He swallowed around a lump in his throat and forced himself to breathe normally. What would he do if Sammy was doing this? Would he go all hawk on him, watching his every move? Would Dean try to get Sammy to talk? He knew that he would get Sam to stop, but...  
“Dean, please talk to me. Is it because of what you did in hell or what was done to you in hell?”  
Dean didn’t respond. Neither, both, either, all of the above.  
“You know you don’t deserve this, Dean, right?”   
Dean said nothing, but thought about what Sam had said. Didn’t he deserve it? Did he? Why was this a matter of deserve? As far as he knew, this made him calm, and hell yes, he deserved to be calm.

“This is the house,” Sam said. Dean came to a harsh stop and they got out quickly.   
“Are you sure?” Dean asked, opening the trunk.   
Patrick Brooks, thirty-two, wife and two kids. One of his coworkers, one in-law in town for a family reunion and one of his kids’ teachers had all been eaten to the bone. Rougarou through and through. It got complicated with the kids, but neither Sam nor Dean had brought it up yet.  
“Yup,” Sam said, slipping his pistol in his waistband and taking the flamethrower. He slammed the trunk shut and started across the house.   
“Whoa, hold up, Sammy. I didn’t get mine yet,” Dean said, fumbling with the keys to open the trunk again.  
“You can help get the family out, I’ll handle this one fine on my own,” Sam said, grabbing Dean’s arm to pull him away.  
“To hell, I’m not. We’re doing this together. I’m not about to go in against a freakin’ rougarou unarmed.”  
“Dean, come on, I have this one,” Sam said, tugging on Dean’s arm again. “We’re wasting time.”  
Dean ripped his arm from Sam’s grip and took a step back. “You don’t trust me to be armed on a hunt?”   
“Dean, right now, this is what we need to do so you can get better. When you can show that you can be trusted around this stuff, then I’m all open to easing you into the weapons again. This job is too dangerous for you right now-”  
“Sam, when have I ever hurt myself on a hunt?” Dean asked, frustration boiling over. Sam was being straight up illogical. If Dean could just get him to realize that, maybe he’d loosen up and let Dean have his space. This past week had been awful, with Sam breathing down Dean’s neck everywhere he went. Dean had figured out how to hide a knife against his ankle when he went to the bathroom. But Sam would knock on the door every five minutes and threatened to the break the door if he wasn’t out in fifteen, so Dean never got to let all of the anxiety leave his system. He felt trapped by Sam and felt hollow while simultaneously brimming to the edge with stress, guilt, anxiety, and every other emotion he felt. Or thought he felt. He was starting to think that he just knew how he should feel in a situation and told himself that’s how he felt, because if he focused on it too long then he found nothing.  
It still pained him when Sam looked at him. He had started wondering if that look would ever go away. Sam never looked at him like he used to. He used to look at Dean like one would expect a younger brother to look up to his older brother. Sure, Dean played his immature side a lot, but Sam had always been able to see past that and just look at his brother with admiration and trust. Dean had built his assumptions of how others felt about him based on how Sam had looked at him. When Sam looked at Dean like he was an idiot, Dean knew everyone else thought the same. When Sam looked at Dean like he was a hero, then Dean could try to believe that others agreed. Sam’s face was the only one that Dean could read. Other people were too hard to read and Dean only felt disapproval and disgust from them. And now all he saw from Sam was disappointment and pity. And when Dean saw it, he wished he could retreat into the ocean and never see it again.  
“I don’t know, Dean. I’d like to think never, but now I’m not so sure. I think back to old hunts and I wonder if you could have defended yourself better and just chose not to,” Sam said, his face fallen with pity for his brother.  
Dean shook his head and went back to the trunk lock. “This is crazy. How is this hunt any different than any of the other ones that I’ve done the past few years? I’m the same this week as I was last year. Just because you know now doesn’t mean that I can’t handle it the same that I’ve handled it before.”  
Sam put a hand on the trunk so Dean couldn’t open it. “Dean, how long has this been going on?”   
Dean didn’t respond.   
A scream broke through the air, pulling both the boys out of their thoughts. Instinctively, they both sprinted across the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think! All comments welcome
> 
> ALWAYS KEEP FIGHTING


	10. Inside of Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All characters belong to CW's Supernatural

Dean supported Sam, who was draped over his shoulders and back. “Come on, Sammy. Just a bit farther, almost there, almost there.”  
He struggled to open the motel door and strained with Sam’s weight. He finally got the door open and took Sam the last few steps until he could collapse onto the bed. Sam moaned against the pain.   
Dean rushed for the first aid kit. He looked at his younger brother’s wounds. His hands and neck had second and third degree burns. His shoulder and thigh had been bitten open, the skin shredded. Dean didn’t know where to start. He went to the sink and got a washcloth wet with cold water. He draped it over Sam’s neck.  
“Hold that in place, Sammy,” he said, gently helping Sam reach up and find the wet cloth.  
Dean went to the bites. He reached for his pocket for a knife to cut away Sam’s clothes. But his pocket was empty. He checked his jacket and then he remembered how Sam had searched his stuff.  
“Damn it, Sammy! I need a knife,” he grunted, rushing to the Impala. He hurried back and started on Sam’s bites. He cut away Sam’s shirt and the jean around the wounds.   
“Damn son-of-a-bitch,” Dean muttered when he saw the extent of his brother’s wounds. “I hate rougarous.”  
“That’s what you said about witches,” Sam muttered softly.   
Dean let out a nervous laugh. “Yeah, I guess I just hate everything evil on this damn planet.” Including me.  
He washed the bites with water first and then diluted the rubbing alcohol before rinsing them with it. He got a new washcloth for Sam’s burns and then he started on the stitches.   
Dean was furious that Sam had gotten so badly hurt. He wanted to be angry at the rougarou, but all the hate he felt was directed inward, at himself. It was Dean’s fault. If he had been there to back him up, then Sam could have gotten away without a scratch.  
“Sam, you should have let me back you up,” Dean said softly.   
Sam shook his head, wincing at the pain that caused. “No,” he whispered.   
Dean stopped stitching and looked at his brother. He couldn’t believe Sam was being serious. This hunt had gone so south that they were just as likely to find a freakin’ penguin in Impala. This should have been a clear warning sign to Sam that he needed Dean and this wouldn’t work without both of the brothers’ full effort into the hunt.  
Dean continued stitching Sam’s skin together. He knew he probably should have felt touched or whatever that Sam was willing to suffer so much for Dean’s sake, but he didn’t feel loved, he just felt angry. Sam was being unreasonable. This was brave or selfless, what he was doing, it was straight up stubborn and idiotic.   
“You can’t take all of these jobs on your own. Whether you like it or not, you’re going to need to start letting be in again,” Dean said. “I’m not going to sit on the sidelines while my little brother gets killed by some freakin’ werewolf or some other son of a bitch.”  
“Then I guess that we’re not hunting,” Sam muttered.  
Dean bit his lip, forcing himself to not reply. Sam couldn’t be serious. 

Dean woke after only a few hours of sleep. It had taken longer than he’d thought to get Sam patched up and he was too uncomfortable to sleep for a few hours, so Dean had gone to get him stronger pain meds. Sam finally fell asleep around two in the morning, and Dean’s racing thoughts hadn’t let him sleep until five.   
It was eight now, and Sam was still sleeping like a bear in hibernation. Dean got up and pulled his jacket on. He came back with breakfast. Sam was still asleep, so he decided to take a shower since he hadn’t yesterday and still probably smelled like sweat and smoke.   
He didn’t turn the water on so Sam wouldn’t wake up right away. He pushed his back against the wall and pulled out the new blade he’d gotten at the hardware store. Dean felt the world shrink to the bathroom he was in. It was just him and this knife left in the world. He thought of Sam on the bed outside the door and flinched in when he thought of Sam looking at him. That look that Sam gave him. He couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t deal with it.  
He sunk the blade into his skin and dug the pain out. This new blade was sharper than what he was used to. It was more painful, but it cut so much deeper. Dean dragged the blade across his arm, not caring how deep the cuts were. He couldn’t care less if they never stopped bleeding.   
“Dean are you in there?” Sam asked, rattling the door knob.  
Damn it, Dean thought, his heart dropping like a stone through his stomach. He froze, not sure of how to answer. Did he play dumb and start his shower? How long had Sam been awake? Better question, how long had Dean been in here?  
“Yeah, just about to take a shower. There’s breakfast on the table,” Dean said, trying to keep his voice steady. He quickly wiped up the blood and cleaned the blade.   
“You were in there half an hour ago, but I fell back asleep. You should be out by now,” Sam replied through the door.  
Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it. The cuts welled up with more blood and he wiped that away too, putting pressure on his wrist so they would stop bleeding. He could make something up. Say he couldn’t sleep and got hung over so he was sick.  
“Dean. Open the door.”  
Dean didn’t respond. He didn’t know how to.   
“Dean, open the damn door,” Sam demanded, his voice stronger. Dean heard Sam walk away and come back. There was some rustling at the door knob and Dean knew that Sam was breaking in.   
Damn it Sammy. Leave me alone.  
Sam opened the door and dropped to Dean’s side. He took Dean’s hand off of his wrist and looked at his cuts.   
“Dean,” he muttered, his voice cracking. He looked around and saw the razor blade.   
“Where did you get this?” he asked, taking it. “Dean, where did you get this. Damn it, Dean! Is it from the car? Did you buy it just so you could....” Sam looked into Dean’s empty face with his dark eyes, his face contorted with pain for his brother.  
Dean didn’t say anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me what you think! All comments are welcome
> 
> ALWAYS KEEP FIGHTING


	11. Peace of Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All characters belong to CW's Supernatural

Dean felt like a wind-up toy in desperate need of WD-40. With nothing to do and Sam always watching his back, he was suffocating with no sight of release. They couldn’t very well do nothing, so Sam and Dean were investigating cases and calling Bobby to refer them to another hunter on the premise that the angels were tying them up with an apocalypse case. This last one had brought them to Texas for a ghost.   
“All right, you call Bobby and I’ll go grab us some lunch before we hit town,” Dean said.   
Sam stood up and grabbed his jacket. “I’ll call him from the car,” Sam said.  
Anxiety built up in Dean’s chest, pushing against his ribs and lungs. He needed a minute on his own. He wouldn’t even have to cut, even though he really wanted to. It was the only thing he thought about. Sam’s watchful eye was doing nothing to help him at all. Sam made him keep the door unlocked when he showered so he could get it if he needed to and followed him everywhere. Dean was past the point of arguing at this point.

 

“Dean, you can’t go. I won’t say anything, I promise. You won’t even know I’m there, just let me come.”  
“I need to breathe, Sammy!” Dean shouted gruffly.  
“Dean, we can talk about this, come on! Talk to me! You’ve haven’t talked to me yet, and you need to. Please, Dean. We can start hunting again if that’s what you want.”  
“We’ll be hunting or you’ll be hunting?” Dean asked.   
Sam’s face broke and he sighed. “Dean, you know-”  
“Yeah, I know all right,” Dean snapped. “You don’t think I can hunt anymore. You don’t think that I’m safe.”  
Sam shook his head. “Dean, I don’t think that about you.”  
Dean scoffed. “Right, which is why you won’t let me out of your sight.”  
“You know why I can’t let you out of my sight.”  
“I’m fine!” Dean shouted. “I am fine,” he repeated slower, calmer. “Sam, I don’t need help. There’s nothing wrong with me.”  
Sam straightened his posture and looked at Dean with that face that made him want to disappear. “Prove it, then.”  
Dean stammered for words. This was the first time that Dean had talked back to Sam when anything about the cutting came up.   
“Dean, come back please. Let’s talk about this. I promise-”  
Dean shook his head. “No,” he said, walking out before Sam could finish. He hurried out of the motel they were holed up in and walked out into the fresh air. He took a deep breath and felt the slight wind through his hair. He strode quickly to the Impala, but he couldn’t find the keys in his pockets.  
Damn it.   
He wasn’t going to go back in there for the freakin’ keys and he wasn’t going to stay here where Sam could follow him. He decided to go for a walk, not even caring where his feet took him. When he ended up outside of downtown, he started jogging, then running.  
He thought about Sam. Why did he care so much? There were more important things on their plate. The seals were breaking and they were miles behind Lilith and stopping her. And still, Sam insisted they stop hunting.  
Dean wondered if he could just outlast Sam. Eventually the angels were going to come by and whip them into working again. The angels didn’t care about Dean’s problems, they would definitely get Sam to let him back into the swing of things. Then, as long as he was smart about it, he could just be more careful and Sam wouldn’t even know.   
Dean stopped running, taking deep, heaving breaths and feeling the cool air fill his body. He sat down against a tree and rested his head back, eyes closed. His chest rose and fell with each breath and his heart beat loudly. It was nice to finally hear his heart again. Seemed to him like he hadn’t felt his own heart in his own chest in weeks. He opened his eyes and looked up at the stars in the clear sky.  
Not for the first time, he wished he was back in hell. He wished that he could go back, ten years ago, to that day that he gave in to Alastair. He longed to go back to that day and choose to stay. Stay on the rack. But mostly, he wished he could have stayed because he couldn’t stand it up here. He saw people and thought of those he had tortured.   
Castiel had been wrong those months ago. Well, he had been right that Dean didn’t think that he deserved to be saved from hell. But Dean had realized that hell wasn’t being tortured. It was remembering the torture done to others. Dean never left hell. Castiel hadn’t saved him. He had taken him from the fire and drowned him in the lake of brimstone. So maybe Dean hadn’t thought that he deserved to be saved. But now he knew that was exactly what he deserved. Because this pain was worse.  
Dean tried to shut out the thoughts, but they kept coming. Face after face and scream after scream. He shut his eyes again and pressed his back into the rough bark of the tree. He held his head in his hands and pressed his palms into his temples. His heartbeat had fallen silent and he no longer feel it. He clawed desperately for something to fill the void in his chest but nothing came. He felt overwhelmed with guilt and totally empty at the same time. He wondered if he even felt the pain he thought he felt or if he just imagined it. Because the emptiness was a lot stronger than the pain.  
He pulled his jacket sleeve up and slid the bracelets out of the way. Under the moon lit sky, the scars on Dean’s wrist looked even more healed than it had earlier.  
That’s not right. Nothing is healed.  
He traced the smooth pink lines with his finger and watched the skin fold unnaturally when he pushed because of the stiff scar tissue.  
Dean thought about Sam.   
Why, he had asked.   
Didn’t Dean know? How could he not know?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please please please comment and tell me what you think! Something you like, something you don't like, anything!
> 
> ALWAYS KEEP FIGHTING


	12. Closer to the Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All characters belong to CW's Supernatural

“Dean,” a rough voice said softly. Dean looked up to see Castiel standing over him.  
He quickly pulled his jacket down, hoping that the dim lighting had been dark enough so Castiel couldn’t see.  
“What are you doing here?” Dean asked. “Found another seal?”  
Castiel tilted his head the way he always did when Dean was lying or said something he didn’t understand.   
“Dean,” Castiel repeated in that same gravelly voice. “Sam prayed to me.”  
Dean clenched his jaw. That’s what this was about. Dean diverted his gaze, staring off into the nothingness of night.  
Castiel continued. “He said that you were gone and needed me to find you. I’m going to bring you to him now.” He paused. “Why did you leave, Dean?”  
Dean didn’t respond. How was he supposed to explain to Spock with Wings that Sam wasn’t letting him cut himself and feel alive?  
“You should know, Sam is very worried,” Castiel said.   
“He shouldn’t be,” Dean muttered.  
“Well, I can assure you that he was. His heartbeat was accelerated and his adrenaline glands were causing him to sweat more than usual and his speech was considerably quicker and more fragmented and difficult to understand than normal. He said some things that didn’t make sense, Dean.”  
Castiel waited a moment for Dean to reply, but he didn’t.   
“Well, let’s go to Sam then. He’s very concerned. I worry that he might do something stupid,” Castiel said, touching a hand to Dean’s forehead and zapping them back to the motel room.  
Sam jumped to his feet and rushed to Dean’s side. “Dean! I thought you were going to kill yourself. You weren’t answering your phone and I couldn’t find you. I had to call Cas to find you before you... Thank goodness Castiel found you.”  
Dean hadn’t noticed that his phone had gone off. Must have been on silent.   
He wanted to tell Sam that he wasn’t going to kill himself. He just needed his space. But he couldn’t make himself speak.  
“Sam, what is going on here? Why would you think that Dean was going to kill himself?” Castiel asked, confused.   
Sam sighed and turned to Castiel.  
Don’t do it. Don’t you dare do it, Sammy.   
“Castiel, can you heal everything?” he asked.  
“Of course, but I don’t-”  
“Can you heal the mind?” Sam asked.   
“I suppose if it were injured in someway, I could heal it.”  
“Heal Dean,” Sam said. “He’s been... cutting himself and he needs you to heal him. Erase hell, erase whatever you need to so that he will stop.”  
Hell, no. Castiel is not getting his feathery fingers anywhere near Dean’s head.   
Castiel was silent.   
“Why would you do this to yourself, Dean?” Castiel asked.  
Dean looked up at him and couldn’t find the words. He didn’t even know if there were words. If there were, he sure as hell didn’t know them.  
“He won’t talk to me about it,” Sam said, frustrated.  
“Perhaps he doesn’t know how. You’d be surprised how little you can actually communicate with the restrictions of your language,” Castiel said. He reached a hand towards Dean’s head.   
“No,” he grumbled, ducking out of the way.  
“I’m just helping Sam understand,” Castiel explained softly, reaching his other hand to Sam. Dean took a step and let Castiel touch him.  
Castiel looked at Sam. “Sam, this is how Dean feels about ... himself,” Cas said.  
Dean felt an energy course through his body and exit through the point where Castiel was touching him.   
Sam gasped reached for the nearby chair for support as his knees went weak. All of Dean’s self hatred, emptiness and guilt was overwhelming. Sam couldn’t breathe. Then he felt the anxiety and stress tightening his chest and clouding his mind. He felt distant and detached and oddly not all there. He felt for the first time what Dean had been feeling for years as he felt foreign in his own body. Almost as soon as it was there, it dissipated and Sam felt normal again.  
“Dean...” he stammered, lost for words.  
Castiel turned to Dean. “This is how your brother feels about you.”  
Dean was hit with an overpowering feeling that he didn’t even know how to explain. He hadn’t felt this in so long that he didn’t even know what to call it. But it was good. He still didn’t understand how someone could feel this about him. It didn’t match.  
A tear slipped from Dean’s eye. He swallowed around the lump in his throat and another tear fell, rolling down his cheek.  
Castiel removed his hand from Sam’s head and put it on Dean’s shoulder. “Dean, though you are a man and there are many things which I don’t understand about you, there is one thing that I know about Dean Winchester. He is a good man,” Castiel said, sending his own feelings for Dean into Dean’s mind.  
“Dean, I don’t think I can fix your mind. But let me heal you, please,” Castiel said, dropping his hands and holding Dean’s wrist in his hand.   
Dean shook his head. He couldn’t. He just...couldn’t.   
He took a step back, still shaking his head. “No,” he muttered, tears falling. “No, no, no.”  
“Why, Dean?” Sam asked. “Why?”  
Dean just shook his head and slipped his hand out of Castiel’s grip. “I can’t.”  
He walked past Sam and picked up the keys on his way out. He had to get out. He had to leave. Dean left, ignoring Sam calling his name. He went to the Impala and turned out of the motel parking lot. He drove out of the town and pulled over on a shoulder wide enough.   
He turned her off and rested his head on the wheel. He sobbed, coughing on his own breath and feeling his tears drip on his jeans.  
He was confused, trying to understand what he had felt from Sam and weigh it against the evidence he had stacked that proved the opposite. Dean lifted his head and looked in the rearview mirror. He tried to feel the ... admiration? Was that the right word? ... that Sam felt for him. And the ... faith? trust? ... that Castiel held towards Dean.  
But Dean could only see lifeless eyes and a disproportionate face that just didn’t belong. His face contorted with sobs, alienating Dean further from his own reflection. He felt anger welling up inside him, hot and dull, pulsing with his absent heartbeat. He reached up to the mirror and tore it off the windshield.  
Dean held his head in his hands, equally overwhelmed with the revelation that Sam didn’t hate him as he was overwhelmed with the resistant voice in his head that told him Sam was wrong. Sam was faking it. Sam was lying.  
The battle in Dean’s mind waged ferociously as he tried to reconcile the scar of hatred that tore deep into Dean’s being with what Castiel and Sam had told him. Dean pushed his palms into his temples, trying to break the wall in his mind that was sealing Dean in himself. He choked on a sob and leaned back into the leather of the Impala.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment! I'm in desperate need of feedback!
> 
> ALWAYS KEEP FIGHTING


	13. Solitary Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All characters belong to CW's Supernatural

When Dean woke up, it was dawn and the sun was glaring in his eyes. Dean didn’t move, leaning back in his seat and taking a deep breath. The tightness wasn’t gone, but it was considerably lessened. And he didn’t want to move for fear that it would come back. The thickness fogging up his mind wasn’t gone either, but he felt much clearer. He sat for a few minutes before his hand habitually started picking at his wrist. Dean sat up now, inspecting the scars on his wrist. They were fading fast. He wondered if Castiel had healed him, but Castiel usually asked for permission unless it was urgent. He was disgusted with the lack of pain they brought him, the lack of clarity. He wanted more than anything to cut the scars open and open his flesh to the air.   
He shuddered to think of those lines being gone forever. No, Castiel could never heal him. There were as much a part of Dean as any other part of his body, if not more because he didn’t feel his body except when he cut. He shut his eyes and tried to focus on his heartbeat, but still he felt nothing. The blade digging into his skin is the only thing that attaches his body to him. It was strange if Dean thought about it too much, because he couldn’t trust himself and his own thoughts. He wasn’t sure what he made up and what was real.   
Dean dropped his wrist from his grip and took a deep breath. The tightness was back, and so was the numbness. He sat up and leaned over the wheel, looking out at the sunrise. He thought about his options. He could leave now. Sam hadn’t followed him as far as he knew and he could start warding himself against Castiel. He could leave them forever and never have to look at their looks of pity for him ever again. He could leave them forever and never have to burden them ever again. He could hunt on his own. It would be difficult at first to get used to having no back up, but he’d done solo hunts while Sam was at Stanford, so it shouldn’t be too hard. He would have to be careful about where he went to avoid Sam. Sam. Sammy would look for him. But once he realized how much better his life was without Dean, he would stop looking and maybe he’d start avoiding too. Dean would have to trash his phones, but as long as he kept out of sight and didn’t use any aliases that Sam was used to, then he’d be fine. He hadn’t used Paul Simon yet.  
Dean sighed, itching to get to a knife from the back. But he was too tired. The hollowness in his being was weighing him down. Suddenly, like a brick wall, he was reminded of what Sam and felt for him.   
Dean still struggled to put words to the feeling. But somehow, he found a small corner of the emptiness in him that wanted to believe that it wasn’t a lie. That it wasn’t pity. Wasn’t wrong.   
Without thinking, Dean turned on the Impala and drove back to the motel. He was putting his faith in that little bit that didn’t completely hate his entire existence. The rest of him fought against it, running thoughts through Dean’s head faster than a white water rapids. Sam didn’t want him, turn around before it’s too late, pull the trigger and put an end to it all.  
He opened the door slowly, forcing himself to breathe. Sam was sitting on the edge of his bed. He stood up and rushed to his brother, taking him in a bear hug. Dean stood, motionless, slowly bringing his arms up to his brother’s back.   
“I’m sorry,” Sam whispered.   
“Me too,” Dean replied.   
They broke and Dean took a step back against the wall, uncomfortable under the extra attention. He took a quick glance at Sammy’s face. He still shrunk against the look he saw, but that little bit of him told him that it wasn’t that bad.   
“So, Castiel found us a case. He thinks that Lilith is closing in on a spot in Georgia to break a seal,” Sam said, handing Dean a coffee.   
Dean took the styrofoam cup from Sammy and nodded. “Right. Okay. Is Castiel zapping us or are we driving?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment, I really love feedback of any kind.
> 
> ALWAYS KEEP FIGHTING
> 
> One chapter left! It's going up tomorrow!


	14. Walk On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All characters belong to CW's Supernatural

\-------THREE YEARS LATER---------

Castiel opened another beer.  
“Jeez, Cas. Slow your feathery ass down,” Dean said, glancing at Cas’s growing pile of empty bottles.   
“If we are celebrating then I should be drunk. I’m just trying to do what you do on a daily basis,” Cas replied.  
Dean rolled his eyes and took another slice of pizza.   
“Whatever you say, Cas,” Dean muttered, staring into the crackling flames of the fire they had built. They were taking the day off from alphas and all the other evil sons of bitches out there. Their phones had been silent all day and the newspapers were full of politicians and civilians. Crowley hadn’t sent any demons after them, so they took the day off. Then again, even if the newspapers had anything, they’d have given the job to Garth. Today was a vacation day.  
Sammy stood up. “You ready?”   
Dean clammed up inside himself, but forced himself to talk. “Sure.”  
Sammy smiled glad to hear an answer. “For the past who knows how long, Dean has been having it rough. Three years ago, I found out. It’s been a long journey, with a few relapses, and probably a dozen more that neither Cas nor I know about. But today, we’re putting that behind us.   
“Everybody has a gauntlet that they have to walk through. How you come out of it shows what kind of person you are, not how bad the gauntlet is, or how long it takes. And Dean, you came out of this alive. Alive and stronger than ever. Even when all the angels, the demons, all the other sons of bitches out there and damn fate or destiny seemed to be pushing you down, forcing you back into the gauntlet or making it worse, you still stood. I wish that you didn’t have to do it alone, but you did. Other people could have broken, but you didn’t. Dean, I’m proud of you.”  
Cas stood up. “Dean, I’m proud of you as well. I have not seen many humans change as you have. It takes incredible strength and will. Yet, you have done it. It’s a miracle, quite frankly. When I first learned about what you were doing from Sam, I thought that you were lost and gone, forever too far from the path, too twisted with your pain. Not many humans surprise me, but you have the habit of breaking that pattern.”  
Dean nodded and smiled. All the attention directed at him wasn’t pleasant, but he wasn’t as uncomfortable as he used to be.  
“Dean, are you ready?” Sammy asked, looking Dean in the eye.  
Dean nodded and stood up. He pulled his sleeve back and took his bracelets off, one by one, revealing the scars of his torment and hatred criss-crossing his wrist. When they were all off, he gathered them in a ball in his hand and took a step closer to the fire.  
“Better make sure their spirits don’t come back to haunt you,” Sammy said, handing Dean the salt.  
Dean smiled and buried the bracelets in salt before giving it back to Sam. He held his hand over the flames, salt falling through his fingers.  
“Here’s to ...” he muttered. He swallowed, not sure what to say.  
“To you,” Cas said.  
Dean looked at Cas and nodded. “To me,” he said. He was suddenly hesitated. If these were gone, how could he hide his pain? Just because Dean had been able to dampen his self hatred, learn a little confidence and ways to distract himself, didn’t mean that life would be smooth sailing from now on out.  
Dean shook his head, and turned his hand. Smooth sailing or not, Dean would never turn back to that. He was stronger now. He opened his hand, the salted leather and thread falling to the flames and burning.   
Sammy clapped him on the back, grinning ridiculously. “Been waiting for that moment for years, Dean.”  
Cas stepped around the fire to the boys, smiling in the way that only an angel can.   
“Dean,” Cas said, holding his hands out. “Are you ready?”  
Dean bit his lip and nodded, giving Cas his wrists. Cas closed his fingers around Dean’s wrist and Dean felt a heat rise up through him as a golden glow pulsed from where Cas was touching him. Then, in a moment, it was over and Cas let go of Dean’s healed wrists. The skin was smooth and the regular tan to match the rest of his body. It was like it had never happened. Dean nodded. It had happened, of course, but he wouldn't never go back.

The angel smiled and threw his arms around Dean’s shoulders and Sam’s back. The three watched the flames of a new start grow higher in the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, we're done! Please tell me what you think, what could have gone better, what went well, anything really.
> 
> ALWAYS KEEP FIGHTING

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me what you think please! Any criticism is welcome.
> 
> ALWAYS KEEP FIGHTING
> 
> Tell me your story!


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